


Mirror, Mirror

by dear_monday



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Exhibitionism Fantasy, Gen, Masturbation, Narcissism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:34:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks up, catching his reflection's eye in the mirror. He hasn't dyed his hair in too long and there are dusty brown roots peeking through underneath the black, and he's just as freaky-pale as ever, but his eyes look big and bright and his mouth is wet and open. <i>Pretty</i>, he thinks. It's kind of dark in his basement, but, he thinks, taking a step towards the mirror, it kind of... suits him. Or, the one where Gerard jerks off in front of a mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror, Mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [synonomy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonomy/gifts).



> bb, I ~~love~~ blame you and your dirty mind.

Gerard is all alone in the house, just drunk enough that he feels warm and comfortable in his skin. He eases himself up off his bed, staggering slightly with the head rush and turning the stereo up. Killer Queen is a fucking awesome song that should _always_ be played loud. Fucking Freddie Mercury. He sways his hips a little, in time with the beat.  
  
"Dynamite with a laser beam," he sings to himself, because it fuck it, there's no one around to hear him. He turns it up again until he can feel the bass throbbing in his bones. He looks up, catching his reflection's eye in the mirror. He hasn't dyed his hair in too long and there are dusty brown roots peeking through underneath the black, and he's just as freaky-pale as ever, but his eyes look big and bright and his mouth is wet and open. _Pretty_ , he thinks. It's kind of dark in his basement, but, he thinks, taking a step towards the mirror, it kind of... suits him. He likes the way the shadows fall on his face, and the way the dark makes his skin fucking _glow_.  
  
He takes another step forwards and runs his hand down over his belly, curling his fingers under the edge of his hoodie and tugging it up just enough to reveal an inch or two of soft, pale flesh. The narrow slice of white between his belt and the paint-stained black hoodie looks pretty cool, kind of hypnotic. He hitches his hoodie up a little further, feeling his belly give under his fingertips. A shiver slides over him like honey, slow and hot. And – yeah. Fuck yeah, he could go for this.  
  
He moves a little closer to the mirror. He can see his eyelashes fanned out around his eyes, dark and sharp, and his pupils are blown wide. He licks his lips, tipping his head back so the weak light falls on the line of his throat and the cut of his jaw. He feels brave, sexy. Like the kind of person people would _want_. He runs his other hand over the exposed stripe between his jeans and his hoodie, dragging his blunt nails over the skin and shivering again when they leave bright, fizzing trails of sensation in their wake. He drops his hand down to his belt buckle, toying with it. It feels fucking awesome to have the time to do this, let the heat in the pit of his stomach build slowly. It's a nice, low-level hum right now, spiking up when he dips two fingers under his waistband. He's getting hard, his cock filling out and his jeans starting to feel uncomfortably tight.  
  
He flicks his belt buckle open, unzips his jeans slowly. Hooking his thumbs into his waistband, he tugs them down a little way. That's all he needs, and the drag of the denim over his soft thighs makes him bite down on his lip. There's a faint flush on his reflection's face, splashes of pink sitting high up on his cheekbones. The song is still playing – _guaranteed to blow your mind, anytime!_ – and he sees himself smile. It's the slow, lazy smile, not the tentative, guarded one he uses when thinks people are laughing at him. He pushes his hair off his face, licking his lips again. His eyes wander down his reflection's belly, following the trail of dark hair down to where the elastic of his underwear is cutting into his hips. He's seriously tenting his boxers now, the hard line of his cock obvious through the cotton and a damp precome stain starting to show through. The fabric against his skin is fucking torture in the best way. He pulls them down over his hips, his eyes skimming over the faint line they left where they were digging in.  
  
He stands there in front of the mirror, his hoodie hitched up, his pants and boxers around his thighs, his eyes dark, his lips parted and his cock flushed and hard. He should probably feel pretty ridiculous right now, but he's so fucking turned on right now and the booze singing in his system is telling him he can do whatever the fuck he wants. He rubs his fingers against his hip, taking his time, then runs one finger along the length of his cock and back, leaving a smear of precome. He's so hot, so fucking ready for this.  
  
When he finally wraps his fingers around his cock and starts jacking himself, it feels good enough to startle a rough, throaty moan out of him. He goes slowly, stopping to lick his palm and watching his reflection, wide-eyed. He looks like a fucking porn star, so totally unashamed. The spit on his hand makes the slide so much better, makes him see stars and groan, and he tightens the circle on of his fingers a little and twists his hand on the upstroke. He's panting now, and he drops his other hand down to cup his balls.  
  
His reflection is watching him with hot, dark eyes, and it's good, it's so fucking good. He imagines someone watching him and wanting so badly to be able to touch – no, _lots_ of someones, a whole room full of people watching him, _wanting_ him. Seeing him gasp when it's almost too much and he has to pull the hand on his balls away and stop for a minute, his other hand tight around the base of his cock to stop himself coming too soon. Once he's got himself under control, he starts working the hand on his dick again, sliding the other one over his hip and back over his ass to brush teasingly against his entrance. Fuck, he wants that, wants to slick his hand up and fuck himself on his fingers, but he's too close already. He's so hard, his cock throbbing in his hand and his orgasm coiled like a spring in the pit of his stomach. He's teased himself enough, the tension is too much and he's too close to the edge and he needs to get off _right the fuck now_. He works his hand faster, his reflection looking all hot and desperate and needy as he fucks into his own hand, and there, that's _it_ , he's fucking gone. He comes all over his hand with a groan of pure relief, heat coursing through him. He strokes himself through it, not stopping until he's over-sensitive and fucking whimpering, then he looks up. He hardly looks like himself at all in the mirror, weak-kneed and blissed-out, sweat shining on his forehead and his breath coming hot and fast. He looks... he looks fucking hot.  
  
One corner of his mouth curls up, and he blows his reflection a kiss.


End file.
